


love actually

by wandasmaximoffs



Series: 12 days of exr 2017 [12]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 12 days of exr, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Past Verbal Abuse, Love Actually AU, M/M, Pining, Requited Love, Slow Burn, day twelve: it's christmas eve and you're not here, happy holidays everyone!!, prime minister!enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: “Oh-- I’m Grantaire, I go by he/him pronouns, and you-- you’rereally fucking tall.”Enjolras laughs in shock, those stupid curls bouncing with the movement, and grins at him; he doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand, though.“I am, a bit, aren’t I?” He laughs, and Grantaire is ready to bolt. He can’t believe he just said that. He swore at the prime minister and called himtall.To his fuckingface.Sweet Jesus.





	love actually

Grantaire is tapping his foot against the marble floor so hard that the chief of staff, Combeferre, is starting to give him some funny glances. 

It’s  _ nerves _ , is all. He had  _ three separate  _ anxiety dreams about this last night, and in all three he said something royally stupid to the new prime minister; in one he told him he thought he was a snack. And that’s so fucking  _ on-brand  _ for his particular type of stupidity he can’t help but worry that it’s actually going to slip out of his mouth.  
  


He  _ really  _ can’t call the prime minister a snack on their first meeting. So he takes a deep breath, and forces his foot to stay still.   
  


Jehan, standing beside him and looking surprisingly put-together in a tie that  _ barely  _ looks hideous, bumps his shoulder gently and mutters, “Calm down. He’s really nice, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Grantaire scoffs; Nothing to worry about,  _ sure,  _ and pigs can fly out of his ass. He doesn’t say that, though, because Jehan is speaking from their signature place of sincerity, and smiles at him so encouragingly that he’d just feel too much of an  _ ass  _ to snark at them. 

“I can’t fucking believe he even got in, mate. Who knew the British voter was capable of being so progressive?” Is what he replies with, instead.

And it’s true; Enjolras’ party is so  _ revolutionary  _ on all fronts in terms of progressiveness, Grantaire had no high hopes for him during the election. He  _ voted  _ for him, of course, because the other options were fucking  _ hideous,  _ and he’s not a monster, but still. He really didn’t think it’d amount to anything.

Wonder of wonders, though, here they are; Grantaire is stood in the actually super fucking intimidating foyer of number ten, waiting to meet the man he voted for while quietly mourning the government he didn’t think would ever be installed, of which he is now a part of.  
  


(Sort of.)  
  


He doesn’t get much of an opportunity to think about it much more, though, because the front door opens very suddenly; the noise from the press outside is deafening, a wave of  _ “prime minister! over here! Enjolras! how does it feel to finally be in office!”  _

But then the noise is muffled again, and Enjolras is standing at the other end of the long line of staff he’s about to be forced into meeting, and-- Fuck. he’s tapping his foot again.

And, okay, he’ll level with you-- the nerves aren’t  _ all  _ of the _ “Oh my god it’s the prime minister he could have me sniped” _ variety, even though most of them are. Some of them might be of the  _ “Oh my god it’s the prime minister and he’s super fucking hot?”  _ variety, but-- So what? He’s only human. Sue him.

The foot tapping is only getting worse as Enjolras moves closer to his place in the line, though; to the point that Jehan _actually_ steps on his foot to make him stop. “Chill _out,_ ” they hiss, when Grantaire shoots them a betrayed look.

And then Enjolras is upon them, smiling that  _ stupid  _ smile that really looks  _ way  _ too earnest to belong to a politician, and shaking Jehan’s hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you-- May I ask your preferred pronouns?” He says, grinning; his ridiculous blonde curls  _ bounce  _ when he leans forward, or looks behind him, or basically just does anything that makes him move. Unfair.

Jehan grins, and shakes Enjolras’ hand with a little more enthusiasm. “Of course! I’m Jehan, I go by they and them pronouns.”

“Wonderful! Thank you for being here, Jehan.”

Seeing him move around in  _ person  _ is so different to seeing him on TV; cameras can’t capture this kind of charisma. It’s  _ hypnotising. _ And this is the  _ totally _ legitimate reason Grantaire gives later on for what then happens.  
  


“It’s brilliant to meet you-- May I ask your preferred pronouns?” He says, looking  _ down  _ at Grantaire, because he seems to be much taller in person. His blue eyes are ridiculously clear, something that the television cameras and newspaper pictures never seemed to be able to picture and something that really, throws Grantaire for a loop for a second; he starts tapping his foot again.

“Oh-- I’m Grantaire, I go by he/him pronouns, and you-- you’re really fucking tall.”

Enjolras laughs in shock, those stupid curls bouncing with the movement, and grins at him; he doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand, though. 

“I am, a bit, aren’t I?” He laughs, and Grantaire is ready to bolt. He can’t believe he just said that. He swore at the prime minister and called him  _ tall.  _ To his fucking  _ face.  _ Sweet Jesus. 

“Oh my  _ God,”  _ He moans, quietly, the hand  _ not  _ still awkwardly gripping Enjolras’ coming up to cover his face. “I am  _ so _ sorry, sir, I have no idea where that came from-- I think I just-- Am short?” He finishes, lamely. Enjolras finally releases his hand, laughing  _ again. _

(It’s a nice laugh.)

“Don’t worry about it, really, first day jitters, I get it. It’s wonderful to meet you, Grantaire. Thanks for being here.”

Combeferre, standing behind him, looks torn between murder and hysterics when Enjolras turns towards his new office with one last wave to them all. Jehan has pressed their hands to their mouth to suppress their laughter.

Grantaire is seriously wishing for lightning to strike him down, or for the floor to open up and engulf him in lava, or--

“It wasn’t that bad,” Says Jehan,  _ clearly  _ straining not to laugh. Grantaire  _ groans;  _ it’s going to be a  _ really  _ long four years, if he even lasts that long.   
  


Jehan pats his shoulder comfortingly.  
  


* * *

  
Enjolras bursts into laughter as soon as he closes the door to his office.

Honestly, he can’t believe that just happened-- His first day as prime minister of the United Kingdom, and his new assistant calls him  _ really fucking tall.  _ It’s understandable; he’s 6’3”, and the man--  _ Grantaire--  _ Can’t be taller than 5’5”. 

Even then, he’s fairly certain some of that height can be attributed to his hair, similar to his own, but where his has been described as  _ golden,  _ Grantaire’s is inky black, a shocking contrast to his bright green eyes.

Enjolras shakes his head, trying to rid himself of any  _ unprofessional  _ thoughts-- He  _ just  _ met the man. The attraction is probably just from being spoken to like a  _ human,  _ he reasons with himself.

Since being elected, every single person he’s spoken to has treated him like glass-- To his face, at least. He  _ hates  _ it. He’s still human, after all, and as much as he knows he’s the leader of the country, he hates the air of superiority people expect him to assume. He refuses to, of course, but people still  _ insist  _ on talking to him like he’s better than them. He’s not. That’s not how he wants to lead the country.

But Grantaire did the complete opposite of that, didn’t he? Swore at him, let him know how tall he is, gave reasoning that he himself happens to be short? It’s bizarre in every way, but it makes Enjolras smile to think about it.

It’s really going to be a long four years.  
  


* * *

  
Things calm down exceptionally over the next few months. Enjolras settles in, and it must be a Christmas miracle, because his popularity is through the  _ roof _ \-- Grantaire is _ beyond _ impressed.

Christmas comes and goes, and he gets over their disastrous first meeting, sort of. Every now and then he remembers blurting  _ you’re really fucking tall,  _ and flushes bright red for an hour or two, but these flush attacks are dropping in frequency the more he actually gets to know Enjolras.  


The problem is, though, that the more he and Enjolras talk, the more he’s beginning to develop some…  _ Unprofessional  _ feelings.  
  


Not that he’s ever really been  _ professional  _ to begin with, even disregarding their introduction. Enjolras insists that they don’t call him sir, only Enjolras; Grantaire hates ties, they make him feel like he’s choking, so he never wears them; he also wears sneakers, instead of dress shoes, something that Enjolras seems to think perfectly acceptable.

There’s absolutely  _ nothing  _ professional about doing his paperwork over a cup of tea with the prime minister, when he has his own desk right outside his office, but Enjolras swears up and down that he’d rather have the company, and Grantaire couldn’t resist the offer, and  _ now--  
_

“I feel weird not knowing anything about you and working so closely with you,” Says Enjolras, out of nowhere, not looking up from the treasury briefing he’s reading. “Especially since you know so much about me, and all.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his tea; what could Enjolras  _ possibly  _ want to know about him? There’s nothing remarkable about him, nothing stellar about his life-- Fuck, he only even  _ has  _ this job because he was already friends with half the staff, and Combeferre took pity on him when he turned down a job at a stuffy law firm.

  
He doesn’t say any of this, though, instead shrugging as nonchalantly as he can manage and asking, “Well, go on then. What d’you want to know?”

Enjolras puts the briefing down and rests his chin on his hand. “How old are you?” He smiles, and Grantaire has to try  _ so fucking hard  _ not to melt.

“Same age as you, I think. I’ll be twenty six in a few weeks.” He swallows. Enjolras is looking at him like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard, when it must be the complete opposite. The man is the second youngest prime minister in the history of the country, and Grantaire is-- He’s what? His assistant? A failed artist?

Enjolras just nods. “I thought so. Where do you live?”

“Why, are you planning to have me killed in my sleep?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow teasingly, leaning back in his chair. “I live in Wandsworth. The dodgy end, though, not the posh bit.”

“Oh!” Says Enjolras, sitting up in excitement like he’s wont to do, eyes suddenly shining. “My parents live in Wandsworth! I’m not sure they live in the dodgy end, though.”

“I doubt it,” Chuckles Grantaire, “It’s  _ really _ dodgy. Harris street, just north of the highstreet? I got mugged there, once.”

“You got  _ mugged?  _ Jesus. But you live there with your… Girlfriend?” Enjolras asks, obviously trying to sound nonchalant but missing it by a mile. (Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, on Grantaire’s part.)

  
(The entire country knows he’s gay, and pretty much the whole of Wandsworth knows that Grantaire is bi, but then again-- he  _ really  _ doubts the fucking  _ prime minister  _ listens to neighbourhood gossip.)

  
Grantaire swallows again. “Oh, no. I just broke up with my boyfriend, actually, so I’m back with my parents for a bit.”

“Oh,” Says Enjolras, frowning, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Shrugs Grantaire, looking at the floor, “He was a dick, anyway. Said I was getting too fat, and that no one was gonna wanna be with a guy with thighs the size of  _ ‘big tree trunks.’ _ Not a nice guy, really. In the end.”

He coughs, and goes back to pencilling various dinners and appointments into Enjolras’ schedule, refusing to look up until the silence gets too pointed and  _ something  _ needs to break the tension.

Enjolras is staring at him, when does, looking furious, and a little concerned. “That’s disgusting. He’s  _ disgusting _ ,” He says, and Grantaire chokes on a laugh, because no,  _ he  _ is, but Enjolras doesn’t give him the chance to protest. “What a fucking awful thing to say to another human being, let alone your  _ boyfriend.  _ Jesus. You look  _ great,  _ just as you are, who cares what he--”

Enjolras cuts himself off with a cough, rapidly flushing bright red and looking down at his briefings. “So, yeah,” He finishes, and this time Grantaire really  _ does  _ choke on his tea.

“Well, thanks,” He says, not sure what else he  _ can  _ say. Enjolras thinks he looks great.

  
Or is it just pity? He’s used to Enjolras’ passion regarding injustice by now, and it’s entirely possible he was just being hyperbolic to drive his point home that humans should be  _ nice  _ to each other, not manipulative insulting dicks, or maybe he really  _ does _ just pity him that much.

Either way, Grantaire just shrugs again, fiddling with his pen.

“You know, being prime minister and all, I could just have him killed.”

This shocks another laugh out of Grantaire, looking up to see Enjolras smiling again, ever so slightly.

“I’ll think about it,” Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras nods.

“Do,” He says, “The SAS are charming. Ruthless trained killers are just a phone call away.”

His small smile transforms into one of his blinding grins, the kind so bright that Grantaire _ literally  _ can’t look at him head-on, and elbows him gently before going back to his briefings.  
  


* * *

  
They don’t get another chance to talk properly for a while, after that. Enjolras brings a cake in on Grantaire’s birthday, and they eat it together in his office, but are interrupted halfway through by a state emergency. Grantaire appreciates it more than he can say, anyway, and Enjolras beams when he tells him.

The president of the United States visits in February, throwing everything into chaos until the end of the month. March too quickly becomes April, scandals come and go, and Enjolras feels like his head would just  _ explode,  _ if it weren’t for Grantaire quickly handing him his cup of tea every morning before he has to run off into some meeting or other.

It goes on like this until mid-September, on a Sunday. It’s surprisingly quiet, enough so that Enjolras can afford to take a quick break from the awful reports on his desk to stretch his legs.  
  


He sees Grantaire crossing the foyer on his way down the stairs, a cup of coffee in his hands, and is about to call out to greet him when he seems to trip over his own feet, spilling the coffee all over himself and hitting the ground  _ hard. _

“Oh,  _ fuck!”  _ He groans, sitting up and examining the damage; the mug is smashed to pieces beside him on the floor, his shirt is stained beyond belief, and his elbow is throbbing from where it hit the marble. “Jesus, I’m so glad nobody saw that,” He mutters to himself, still sitting on the floor dejectedly.

Enjolras coughs, and rushes down the stairs to help him up.

Grantaire’s head snaps up, eyes widening comically before he covers his face with his hands again. Once again, he’s struck with the sudden desire for the floor to open up, and swallow him whole.

At least then he won’t be able to embarrass the  _ fuck  _ out of himself in front of-- Well. On one hand, he is a twenty six year old man, and that is way too old to have  _ crushes.  _ On the other, he has a massive fucking crush on Enjolras. So, yeah. In front of his  _ crush. _

  
“Lie to me and say you didn’t see any of that,” Says Grantaire, groaning slightly as he takes Enjolras’ hand and pulls himself up. He underestimates his strength, though, and when he’s finally upright the momentum of the pull has him stumbling forwards, right into Enjolras’ chest.

“Shit, sorry,” He mutters, ignoring the feeling of Enjolras’ hands on his arms as he tries to stabilise him. They’re dangerously close, standing like this, Grantaire looking up at him and Enjolras gazing right back.

“It’s alright,” Enjolras says, quietly; He doesn’t make to move away. “Don’t, um. Don’t worry about it.”

This close, Enjolras can see the little flecks of brown in Grantaire’s eyes, and the little cluster of freckles on the left corner of his mouth; he can see the way Grantaire’s eyelashes, as dark as his hair, sweep his cheeks when he blinks, and the way his chapped lips part almost imperceptibly when Enjolras leans forward--

“Sorry, um, about that,” Coughs Grantaire, suddenly pulling away and straightening up. “Ah, shit, my shirt--”

The coffee stain takes up most of his chest and torso, so it’s a  _ little  _ to big to be covered by a dreaded tie. Grantaire looks so put out by it, though--

“Come upstairs, you can borrow one of mine.” Enjolras can’t stop the words from falling from his mouth, but he can’t seem to regret them, either. “I mean, only if you want to, of course.”

“I-- Enjolras. I couldn’t, I bet your shirts cost more than my entire  _ life _ is worth--”

“We both know that’s not true,” Says Enjolras, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards slightly, “And besides, I buy my shirts in two packs from Asda.”

Grantaire sighs, suddenly looking very, very fond. “Of course you do,” he says, softly, and Enjolras smiles.

“I just don’t think it’d be fair for me to be wearing expensive clothes when so many can’t even afford the bare basics, you know?” He says, sheepishly. Grantaire’s heart skips a beat.

  
Grantaire is man enough to admit that yes, he  _ has  _ been avoiding Enjolras lately. But what else can he do? He can’t bring himself to quit, and be out of his way forever, but working so closely with him and feeling the way he does-- It’s torture, really.

Especially since there are moments, sometimes, when they’re laughing over a joke or talking about something stupid or just  _ looking  _ at each other that he thinks, maybe,  _ maybe  _ Enjolras could feel the same way about him.

That is, until he remembers that Enjolras is  _ Enjolras,  _ the prime minister of the country who just  _ happens _ to look like a marble masterpiece, and he’s  _ Grantaire.  _ A pity-hire with tree trunk thighs and crooked teeth. He’s so far beneath him, the idea of Enjolras ever  _ feeling  _ anything towards him-- it’s _ unfathomable. _

Avoiding him has been for the best, really, it has; maybe, he thinks, maybe if we don’t talk as much, these super fucking  _ inconvenient  _ feelings will just-- Go away.

But he’s standing right there, smiling nervously, and  _ fuck _ ; Grantaire can feel all his resolve melting away.

“Alright,” He sighs, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, “Lead the way, then.”  
  


* * *

  
Enjolras’ bedroom is surprisingly messy, and nothing like what Grantaire had expected. He’d  _ expected  _ it to be like the rest of the building-- Professional, intimidating, maybe a little impersonal.  

It’s the complete opposite, and Grantaire is so taken aback by it he has to repress an audible gasp.

There are clothes all over the floor, of which Enjolras quickly makes an effort to kick under the bed, flushing slightly. There’s a pride flag hanging  _ above  _ the bed, and a battered looking copy of  _ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban  _ on the bedside table, beside some succulents.

“Sorry about the mess,” He says, side-stepping a pile of books to get to the wardrobe, next to which hangs a Green Day poster.

“No problem,” Says Grantaire, absently. It’s the room of a twenty-six year old, a  _ normal  _ twenty-six year old; it looks like his own. He’s desperately trying to reconcile Enjolras, the prime minister, and Enjolras, the Harry Potter reading, Green Day listening millenial in his head, when Enjolras holds a shirt out to him.  


“You listen to Green Day?” He asks, a little lamely, taking the shirt from him.

Enjolras flushes an even deeper red, and shrugs sheepishly. “Yeah. I know, ironic, since they’re all  _ fuck the government!  _ and I’m-- Y’know. The government. But I like the music.”

“They’re awesome, though, so-- Ah, fuck,” He curses, holding the shirt out in front of him, “I forgot you were a fucking tree man.”

“A  _ tree man?”  _ Laughs Enjolras, eyebrows raised, “Hm,  _ no _ , you’re just tiny. That is something I can  _ not  _ be blamed for.”

“I disagree, you are  _ unnaturally  _ tall. Therefore, a tree man. I only  _ seem  _ short in your presence because you’re half-giant.”

“I acknowledge your point, but raise that you might appear to be short in my presence because you are, in fact,  _ short. _ ”

“Uh, I am  _ not  _ short,” Sniffs Grantaire, with an air of mock offence, “I am  _ fun-sized. _ ”

“Do I need to bring up our first ever conversation, in which you  _ admitted-- _ ”

“Ha! No, you wouldn’t  _ dare, _ ” Grantaire grins; Enjolras grins back, and drops into the chair next to his desk.

“Wouldn’t I?”

  
They continue on like this for a few hours, the shirt left forgotten, and the debate turning from Grantaire’s height, to the best superheroes, to foreign policy, to the validity of Severus Snape (something they could both agree on; he’s trash.)

It’s 2AM when Grantaire finally goes home, still in his stained shirt, with the sinking feeling that his  _ crush  _ may have developed slightly.

_ Don’t be a fucking idiot,  _ he thinks, kicking a can down the street,  __ You’re not in love with the fucking prime minister.  
  


* * *

  
Things are  _ different  _ between them, after that.

Time rolls on, though, and soon enough December is upon them again; Enjolras has been prime minister for an entire  _ year.  _ Grantaire can’t wrap his head around it.

He says this to Courfeyrac one night, when he’s in the kitchen bothering Bossuet about making him some of his famous pasta, and Courf fixes him with a calculating stare.

“Hm,” He says, frowning, “About that. You and Enjolras. What’s going on there?”

  
Grantaire chokes, sending a glare Bossuet’s way when he starts to laugh.

“I-- You don’t even-- I don’t even know what you mean. I’m his assistant.”

It’s a lame defence, he knows, but what else can he say?  _ “I’m hopelessly in love with my boss, who is also way out of my league, and it’s torture?”  _ Unlikely.

“Sure, hon, sure,” Says Courfeyrac, tilting his head to the side. “There was a picture of you two in some magazine yesterday. You looked pretty…  _ Friendly. _ ”

“Oh, Jesus, are we believing everything we read in magazines now?”

“Don’t try and snark your way out of this one. Ferre told me he saw you leaving Enjolras’ room at, like, fuck o’clock a few months ago.”

Grantaire shifts in his seat. “Yeah, so what? He was lending me a shirt.”

“Oh, of course. But really, all this absolute bullshit aside-- Are you going to, like, make a move?” Courf demands, glaring.

“I--  _ What?  _ Of course not!” Grantaire splutters, flushing red. “I can’t-- Courf. He’s the  _ prime minister.  _ I am literally _ nothing. _ I’m barely worth the air I breathe.”

  
Courf’s glare softens considerably, and he sighs. “Did Mont tell you that, or is that one of your own creation?”

“What? No. Well. Maybe. But who cares, it’s true, so--”

“No!” Courf groans, throwing his hands in the air, “Spoiler alert, bitch! It’s not, actually! You broke up with him for a reason, and that reason was that he’s a fucking asshole!”

“I’m an asshole, too, though,” Says Grantaire, softly; Bossuet makes a noise of indignation, and turns away from the stove to face them.

“But you’re  _ our  _ asshole! And we love you. And want you to succeed in life. And want you to stop thinking that everything that Montparnasse says is true.”

“Stop. Stop being so _ extra. _ ” Grantaire mutters weakly, letting his head drop into his hands.

 

Yes, he knows his defence against asking Enjolras out is weak. And yes, he knows his relationship with Montparnasse was a hundred shades of fucked up. And  _ yes,  _ he knows that not everything he was told while  _ in  _ said relationship was strictly true,  _ but.  _ But, but, but.

The entire premise of this situation is giving him a headache.

“I’m not good enough for him.” He says, quietly. “I want to be, but I’m not.”

Courfeyrac takes this as a cue to hug him so tight he can barely  _ breathe,  _ but he’s not complaining; sometimes you do just need a hug. Bossuet makes an indignant noise and abandons the stove to join in, bless his soul-- Grantaire is starting to feel a little  _ less  _ worthless, being suffocated as he is by his two friends.

He doesn’t see the text Courfeyrac rapidly sends off to Combeferre as he goes to get Enjolras’ dismissal for the night.  
  


* * *

  
Combeferre’s phone dings from where it’s laying across the room, causing Enjolras to look up from his laptop in confusion.

“What?” He says, as Combeferre bursts into laughter.

“I didn’t say anything, stupid, my phone went off. One sec,” He adds, reaching across the bed to grab it.

 

**_( Courf <3 || Today || 10:09:55 PM: _ ** #confirmed r is super gone for blondie. operation christmas miracle is go  **_)_ **

**_( Courf <3 || Today || 10:10:13 PM: _ ** thats what i named it btw  **_)_ **

**_( Me || Today || 10:10:57 PM:_ ** I thought so. Do NOT start scheming. I’ll talk to E.  **_)_ **

**_( Me || Today || 10:12:06 PM:_ ** I mean it Courfeyrac. Do Not. Start. Scheming.  **_)_ **

**_( Courf <3 || Today || 10:13:34 PM: _ ** SHENANIGANS  **_)_ **

**_( Me || Today || 10:13:59 PM:_ ** N O  **_)_ **

 

“You okay?” Enjolras asks, rubbing at his eyes; he’s been staring at that screen for  _ way  _ too long, and now his eyes are paying the price. Alas. “You look a little… Pained?”

“I’m fine, Courf is trying to do shenanigans.” He explains, and Enjolras smiles understandingly.

“Ah, I feel sorry for the poor victims.”

_  
Oh,  _ thinks Combeferre, darkly,  _ if only you knew. _

“But speaking of shenanigans,” He says, instead, picking his words carefully “I could have sworn I saw Grantaire leaving here at ridiculous o’clock a few months ago, looking a little…. Debauched.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen. “What? No. I mean,  _ yes,  _ but it wasn’t-- Like that. The floor debauched him, not me. Not-- He fell down! And spilled coffee, and I was going to lend him a shirt, but then we were talking and-- Yeah. Nothing  _ like that _ happened.”

“No?” Says Combeferre, eyebrow raised; his tone says he thoroughly does  _ not  _ believe him, and Enjolras sighs. As much as he would have  _ liked  _ something to have happened, it didn’t, and that’s for the best.

“ _ No.  _ Even if I  _ did  _ want something to have happened-- Which I’m not saying I did!” He adds, seeing Combeferre’s growing smirk, “It wouldn’t have changed things. I can’t-- make that move.”

“What?” Combeferre asks, frowning now, “Why not? I mean, should you hypothetically have wanted to  _ make a move  _ on Grantaire.”

“ _ Because,”  _ Enjolras says, “I’m the prime minister. And he’s… A subordinate.”  


“Enjolras, that is  _ not  _ like you,” Says Combeferre, sharply. Enjolras’ eyes widen even  _ more  _ as he realises what that  _ could  _ sound like, and makes a noise of frustration.

“No! I don’t mean it-- It’s not like  _ that.  _ I just mean… I’m his  _ boss, ‘ _ Ferre. I would never want him to feel, I don’t know, pressured, or coerced, to be with me just because I’m in a weird position of power.”

“Oh,” Says Combeferre, softly; that makes a  _ lot  _ more sense. Enjolras has never been one to have snobbish views, and they both know it. Concern for Grantaire’s level and legitimacy of consent, though, is  _ much  _ more like him, and he says as much.

“Alright, that  _ is  _ like you-- But have you considered that, maybe, he really does want to be with you? And it has nothing to do with any pressure?”

“I have,” Enjolras confirms; he looks miserable, all of a sudden, “I think he might, sometimes. But-- I’m the prime minister. I can’t  _ give  _ him anything, except a life full of press and rumours.”

“Well,” Says Combeferre, pushing his glasses a little farther up his nose, “You’ll never know if you never talk to him.”  
  


* * *

  
Grantaire is filled with a little more  _ optimism, _ on his way upstairs; he thanks God or whatever thing is up there every day for his friends, and  _ their  _ optimism. Lord knows he’d be a sad bastard without them. Well. More so than he already he is, he guesses.

He’s ready to knock on Enjolras’ door and let him know he’s leaving, though, when he hears his name. It sounds like Combeferre, but he can’t really be sure.

  
“ _...Make a move _ on Grantaire?” He asks, and Grantaire freezes outside the door, heart pounding. They’re talking about him, but-- In what capacity? This  _ can’t  _ just be wishful thinking anymore; how many situations can one apply the phrase  _ ‘make a move’  _ to?

“Because!” Comes Enjolras’ voice, muffled by the barely open door, “I’m the prime minister, and he’s… A subordinate.”

  
Oh.  _ Oh. _

  
He knew it. He  _ fucking knew it--  _ Of course he’s not good enough for Enjolras.  _ Of course  _ he’d think him beneath him.

Grantaire turns away from the door; he can’t hear the rest of this conversation, doesn’t want to hear how truly pathetic Enjolras must think him, so he darts back down the stairs instead. He’s learned his lesson, at least-- Wishful thinking gets you nowhere.

It’s Christmas, at least, which means that if he wants to take a few days off, who the fuck is going to stop him? Not Combeferre, not  _ Enjolras. _

God. It hurts to think about him; Grantaire wonders when he became so stupid for him. The real question, though, he supposes, is how could he  _ not  _ be? The man’s incredible-- Intelligent, funny, attractive, genuine,  _ kind. _

Well.  _ Well. _

He almost makes it to the front door unbothered, when Courfeyrac comes flying out of the side-door that leads to the kitchens and attaches himself to him. Grantaire sighs.

“Leaving already?” He asks, winking, already looping his arm through Grantaire’s.

Grantaire laughs, but it’s so sad and bitter it sounds more like a scoff. “Yeah. I just-- Jesus. I overhead something I don’t think I was supposed to.”  
  


Courfeyrac looks confused, and Grantaire is already regretting even letting  _ that  _ much slip; Courf’s a gossip monster, and everyone knows it; he’ll never tell your secrets, but he’s always dying to know them.  


“Oh! What, what did you hear, I wanna know,  _ please  _ tell me,” He babbles, brown eyes shining.

“Fine! Fine,” Grantaire acquiesces way earlier than he usually would; there’s no teasing lilt to his voice, either, and Courfeyrac must pick up on it, as he tilts his head in concern.

“Just-- Enjolras was talking with Combeferre, I think, when I went to tell him I was leaving. I didn’t-- I didn’t hear the entire conversation, but it was something about Enjolras not wanting to make a move because he’s the prime minister, and I’m  _ “a subordinate,”  _ he smiles, a little ruefully, “So I guess I’m not good enough for him, after all. Called it.”

“That’s so unlike him though, he--” Courfeyrac looks stunned, but he recovers quickly enough, his expression melting into one of concern and indignation. “You’re too good for him, if that’s how he feels. I’ll talk to him, that’s  _ not  _ cool--”

“Please don’t,” Grantaire pleads, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, “Just-- It’s fine, okay? He’s under no obligation to want to date me, or even like me, so-- Yeah. I’m taking a few days off, and then when I come back, I-- I don’t know. Guess I’ll hand in my resignation? I’ll need to think about it.”

“R--”

“I’m fine. Really. It’s my own fault, I got my hopes up for something that would never in a million years happen. I’m his  _ assistant,  _ and he’s my boss, and that’s that.” Grantaire tries for a smile again, though he’s sure it must fall a million miles short; his insides feel like they’re being pulled apart. “Have a good Christmas, Courf.”

  
And with that, he turns out into the snow.  
  


* * *

  
“You  _ snob,”  _ Says Courfeyrac, the minute he makes his (rather dramatic) entrance into Enjolras’ rooms; the door slams against the wall with the force of which he entered, and Enjolras looks  _ beyond  _ confused.

“Okay?” He says; Combeferre groans into his hands.

“I can’t fucking  _ believe  _ you would say something like that, Enjolras, like, actually. That’s not you, and so I’m here to bring your over-inflated ego back down to earth!”

This just serves to further Enjolras’ confusion; he squints between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, silent for a few seconds, before asking, “Is this shenanigans?”

“No! It was going to be, but then you had to go be a fucking elitist about Grantaire, and now--”

“--Wait, wait,  _ wait,  _ Courfeyrac! Slow down.  _ When  _ was I an elitist about Grantaire? I don’t--”

“--Just then! He came up to say goodnight and  _ apparently  _ heard the two of you talking about how he’s a subordinate, and--”

  
“Oh my  _ God, _ ” Combeferre groans into his hands again, taking his glasses off with a heavy sigh. “Courf, sit  _ down,  _ Jesus Christ. Do you really think Enjolras would say something like that and mean it?”

Courf looks to Enjolras, who has suddenly gone very, very pale, eyes wide with what  _ appears  _ to be panic, and he takes stock of the situation. Enjolras is not an elitist. Enjolras looks very upset.  


Hm.  
  


“...No?” He hazards, and sinks down next to Combeferre with a muttered  _ “Hi, babe.” _

“No.” Confirms Combeferre, patting his shoulder gently.

“Oh my God. Oh my  _ God.  _ He overheard that? That’s  _ not  _ what I meant, I’d never, I just, and he,  _ oh my God-- _ All I meant,” He adds, despairing, “Is that there’s a significant power imbalance in our relationship, and I didn’t-- I didn’t want him to feel pressured.”

  
“Oh.” Says Courfeyrac. “ _ Oh.  _ Of course. Oh my God, hon, I am so sorry--”

“It’s fine,” He says, weakly, because Enjolras is always so forgiving of his friends. Courfeyrac shakes his head.

“It’s not, but I can make it up to you with a  _ foolproof plan  _ to explain and win him back.”

“He’s not a prize, he’s a human,” Says Enjolras, automatically; Combeferre chuckles. “And I-- Shit. I have a  _ meeting,  _ I can’t go after him--”

“Go to your meeting,” Says Combeferre, gently, “We’ll be here when you get back.”

  
Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically, his brown curls bouncing comically with the movement. Enjolras sighs.

“Alright,” He says, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Alright. Alright. See you all later.”

As soon as he leaves, Combeferre and Courfeyrac start planning.  
  


* * *

  
It was a good plan, it really was; Enjolras has to hand it to them for thinking something up that would preserve his reputation to the public and quietly deal with Grantaire.

But, God, it was so _ elaborate  _ and  _ far _ too shenanigans-like, and Grantaire would have seen right through it, so--

Here he is. In a car, on the way to Harris street, in the dodgy end of Wandsworth,  _ completely  _ disregarding the politically convenient plan his two best friends had thought up, ready to bear his soul to his assistant.  


On Christmas eve.

  
“What number, sir?” Asks the driver, pulling Enjolras out of his reverie.

“Sorry?”

“What number?”

“Oh,” Says Enjolras, “Oh,  _ shit. _ I don’t know. Um-- Just here will do, thanks.”

_  
Jesus fucking Christ,  _ he thinks, staring down the street; most of the houses are lit up with Christmas lights and decorations.  _ This is the longest street in the world. _

He takes a deep breath, and knocks on the first door.  
  


* * *

  
Two hours, three old ladies, countless families, five demanding children and one very excited dog later, and he finally reaches a familiar face.

It’s not Grantaire, though.

“Oh,” He says, when the door opens, “Jehan. Merry Christmas. Is-- Do you live with Grantaire?”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” They say, crossing their arms over their chest, obviously confused. They’re wearing a truly hideous Christmas jumper, bright orange and blue, adorned with bells. It jingles whenever they move. “Nope. He lives next door. Why, is everything okay?”

“Thank God. No, everything’s fine-- Well. It’s about to be.” He gives them his best encouraging smile, though he’s not sure it really has the desired effect, as Jehan starts to  _ smirk. _

“Well, you two…Have fun.” They wink, turning back and closing the door.  
  


Has  _ everyone  _ noticed how absolutely gone he is for Grantaire? Has he really been that obvious?

Apparently  _ not,  _ since Grantaire currently thinks he’s not  _ good enough  _ for him. What bullshit.

  
Enjolras’ hands are shaking when he knocks on the door; it’s green, like the wreath that hangs on it, and he can just see the outline of a Christmas tree through the front window. This is Grantaire’s  _ house,  _ where he  _ lives,  _ and even though Grantaire has been in Enjolras’ apartments a million times, this somehow feels a lot more intimate.

The door opens, though, before he loses his nerve and turns away, to reveal a tall, thin woman, with close cropped hair.

“Oh!” She grins, “Prime minister! Good lord. Can I help you?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to ask if Grantaire lives there, if he can speak to him, but is cut off by an all-too familiar voice from behind the woman.  
  


“Where the fuck is my  _ fucking  _ coat?”

Grantaire is walking down the narrow staircase, just visible from the doorway; Enjolras meets his eyes, and he freezes.

“Oh,” He says, “Prime minister. We’re just on our way out.”

“Grantaire,” He says, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I--”

  
He tries to get it out, he really does, but he’s cut off  _ again  _ by the sudden appearance of a bubbly-looking blonde girl behind Grantaire.

“Where the fuck is Marius?” She demands, shrugging on a coat, “We’re going to be late, and-- Oh! Prime minister!”

“Hello,” Says Enjolras, smiling awkwardly, “Merry Christmas. Could I--”  
  


“Fantine, darling, have you seen my glasses-- Oh!” Enjolras is cut off  _ again  _ by a man with silver hair, ambling out of the door that Enjolras assumes leads to the living room.

Grantaire groans.

“Dad, they’re on your head,” He says, weakly, still staring at Enjolras. Enjolras opens his mouth, and closes it again; he’s starting to feel somewhat like a fish in a tank.  
  


The blonde girl shoulders past him and makes her way down the stairs, smiling sweetly.

“Henri,” She says, “Care to introduce us?”

“Um-- Fuck, no, yeah, sorry.” Grantaire seems to unfreeze, a little life leaking back into him as he makes his way down the stairs and pulls Enjolras into the house.

“Enjolras, my annoying sister, Cosette, uh, my mum, Fantine, and my dad, Jean. Everyone, uh, Enjolras, the prime minister, etcetera etcetera.”

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” He says, shaking what hands he can reach and trying to muster up a confident smile. “Merry Christmas. Grantaire, could I-- Can we talk? Please?”

  
Grantaire hesitates; he should say no. He should say  _ no,  _ and avoid the heartache, but-- God. It’s only been a few days, but he already  _ really fucking misses him. _

“Um, yeah, okay.”

Cosette nudges him, looking betrayed. “We have a play to be getting to, asshole, don’t forget.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna refuse to move until  _ Marius  _ gets here, so--”

“Shut up, at least I  _ have  _ a love life, you--”

Enjolras coughs. “Um-- I have a car, maybe you all could take that, and-- And if Grantaire would give me the pleasure of walking with me?”

  
“Oh, that’s awfully kind of you,” Smiles Fantine, warm and genuine enough that Enjolras can’t help but smile back.

“No, of course,” He says, looking to Grantaire. “Are you-- Is that okay?”

Grantaire swallows. “Yeah. No, yeah, ‘course. You lot get going, and we’ll-- yeah.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Enjolras  _ knows  _ what Grantaire’s real smiles look like, and knowing that this poor imitation of one was caused by  _ him  _ makes Enjolras’ chest hurt.

  
“Thank you, sir,” Says Jean, smiling warmly and shaking his hand again on the way out of the house. Fantine does the same, and Cosette punches Grantaire in the arm before practically  _ sprinting  _ out of the house to greet who Enjolras assumes must be Marius, leaving him and Grantaire standing alone in the hallway.

It’s silent, for a few moments, Enjolras staring at Grantaire, and Grantaire staring back.

  
  
“Sorry, about them,” Grantaire says, finally, “We’re a very, um _ , linguistically liberal _ family.”

Enjolras laughs weakly. “No, It’s-- They’re great. May I?” He adds, offering an arm to Grantaire and turning towards the door.

Grantaire hesitates; he’s got no idea what Enjolras is even  _ doing  _ here, talking to his family, offering him his arm to walk to his old primary school. It hurts, a little bit, to even look at him, earnest and familiar as he is.

And Christ, it’s  _ Christmas. _

“God. Okay, fine,” He relents, looping his arm through Enjolras’. Enjolras  _ beams,  _ and that-- That’s just unfair.  
  


* * *

  
They walk in silence for a while, their breaths appearing as puffs of white in the cold night air. The silence isn’t comfortable or companionable, like it usually is between them, and the tension in the air is becoming far too much for Grantaire to handle. Surely, Enjolras hasn’t come all this way just to reject a proposal he never made in  _ person. _

“I just,” Says Enjolras, finally, breaking the silence, “I just wanted to explain.”

“Oh,” Grantaire looks at the floor, “No, you don’t-- it’s fine. I get it. You’re the prime minister, I’m your assistant. That’s that.”

Enjolras stops in his tracks, frowning. “No, Grantaire, that’s _ no _ t what I meant.” He says, fiercely, “You overheard me saying something stupid, but I  _ swear,  _ it’s not what it sounds like.”

“Enjolras,  _ please,”  _ Grantaire pleads, the hand not occupied by Enjolras coming up to cover his eyes, “I don’t need you to explain anything, and I don’t need your pity. For Christ’s sake, it’s Christmas, and--”

  
“ _ I know,  _ just  _ listen--  _ I didn’t mean you weren’t  _ good enough  _ for me, how could I ever think that? How? Jesus, Grantaire, have you seen yourself? You’re fucking  _ wonderful,  _ and I get it if you think I’m awful or a snob, I do, but that’s  _ not what I meant.  _ All I was saying is that-- I’m your  _ boss,  _ and I understand that there’s a significant power imbalance here, and I-- I want to be with you because  _ you  _ want it, not because you think you have to, or you feel pressure, or something! And I was going to leave it alone, and Courf had a  _ great plan,  _ but I was just sitting there, and it’s Christmas eve, and-- You weren’t there. And I  _ wanted  _ you to be.”

  
Enjolras finishes his speech by throwing his hands in the air, cheeks flushed and eyes bright; Grantaire has always been weak for him when he’s caught up in making a point like this.

“...Oh,” He says, softly. Of course Enjolras didn’t think he was better than him.  _ Of course.  _ He was concerned about his ability to consent, and that-- Jesus. Grantaire can’t help the grin that overtakes his features; the constant ache that had settled in his chest is suddenly gone, the weight lifted from his shoulders. His head is buzzing with the possibilities suddenly being presented, and the sudden clarity that has befallen.

  
“It’s Christmas eve,” Enjolras repeats; he sounds like he’s pleading, but has no idea what for. “It’s Christmas eve, and you weren’t there. And it didn’t-- it doesn’t feel right.”

“God, you absolute fucking  _ numpty,”  _ Breathes Grantaire, pulling Enjolras to him by the lapels of his coat. “Thank you, first of all, for being so fucking  _ considerate,  _ but _ \--  _ Listen to me, okay? I _ want _ to be with you. I don’t feel pressured. I don’t feel like I have to. I feel like I  _ want  _ to, because I’m  _ so fucking gone for you _ , Enjolras, Jesus  _ Christ,  _ I’m stupid over you.”

Enjolras blinks down at him, stunned; he’d expected-- Well. Anger, maybe. Indignation. Not  _ this. _

He grins, and Grantaire beams back; the real, genuine smile that he loves so much.

“I love you,” The words tumble out of his mouth, unbidden, before he can stop them, and for a sickening second he’s  _ terrified.  _ Grantaire doesn’t turn away or laugh awkwardly, though; instead, he pulls him down by his lapels and kisses him,  _ hard. _

Enjolras melts into it, paying no regard to the spectacle they must be making-- The prime minister, snogging his assistant in the middle of the street in the dodgy end of Wandsworth-- It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Grantaire, warm and pliant against him, breaking away only momentarily to say, “I love you, too.”

  
Enjolras beams against his lips.

They continue on like this until they  _ have  _ to break apart, or risk suffocation.

“Are you on your tiptoes?” Grins Enjolras, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. Grantaire rolls his eyes, fond.

“Shut up,  _ tree man,  _ and kiss me again.”  


Enjolras grins, and obliges.

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS FAM! it's the last day of this series and I hope y'all enjoyed. Thank you so much to everyone who read/encouraged/left kind comments or kudos! y'all are the best! I hope you all have a really great holiday season <3 <3
> 
> credit for the prompts goes [here,](https://littlerose13writes.tumblr.com/post/167528124950/12-days-of-shipmas-because-i-love-christmas) and the idea for this au came from [this post!](http://gay-french-and-dead.tumblr.com/post/168095615819/where-are-my-love-actually-aus-w-enjolras-as-the)
> 
> I dont think ive ever used so many curse words in my life adgrh. also i love the idea of Grantaire being a part of the fantine-valjean-cosette fam, and im #sorry for making mont the token villain. thanks for reading!
> 
> [Support Me on Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/S6S5IQU1)


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